


Best-Laid Plans

by Deus_Ex



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Amused Gandalf, BAMF Thranduil, Battle of Five Armies, Confused Bard, Dain Ironfoot being an asshole, Diplomacy doesn't exist, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3122702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps it was a bad idea to spring it on Thranduil that Dain was the new dwarf king.  Perhaps it was also a bad idea to neglect to mention to Dain that Thranduil would be present at this little meeting.  But Bilbo and Gandalf just wanted to get everyone in the same room so they could resolve things.  How was anyone supposed to know that Thranduil was capable of turning an apple core into an effective weapon?</p><p>...in hindsight, they really ought to have seen that coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best-Laid Plans

He should have known that, when Thranduil made his appearance at the meeting later that day, that nothing would be different. He would be every bit as frosty as he always was, speaking in an apathetic, deadpan sort of tone with that stony, unreadable expression of his and looking so damn perfect that Bard just wanted to punch him to see if he'd even feel it, let alone react. If he had any faith that his hand would make it even halfway to the Elvenking, he might have had more than half a mind to try it. More than likely, his hand would be harmlessly diverted to slap into a cool palm, he'd get a withering glare for his troubles, and perhaps a snide, mocking comment if Thranduil was feeling particularly generous that day. Still, he had hoped that perhaps the blonde elf's steely glare might soften upon him, or that he would upset the seating order and claim the spot next to him. In the end it was just that, though: hope. Left entirely unfulfilled. At least he was still finishing up the apple he'd had earlier, or perhaps found a new one. It made him look the tiniest bit more...human. If the comparison could be made. He tried not to look disappointed as Thranduil ghosted right past him in favor of his chair from yesterday, the one at the head of the table. A bold move, but none that anyone seemed inclined to question him or challenge him on.

Except, apparently, their newcomer.

"Oy! Who invited the princess?"

They'd all seen this coming, from the moment the dwarves announced that a new ruler from the line of Durin had been chosen. They'd seen firsthand the hatred and vitriol that these two men spit at each other across a battlefield, one in confident and cold denunciation and the other in violent anger and ire. They knew of the long-standing feud between the races and that both men had strong personalities not prone to compromising. And springing the surprise on both of them was not the best of ideas, but they'd thought that at least one of them would decline to come if they knew about each other in advance. Bard, for one, was not about to sacrifice his only ally in this arena for the sake of a centuries-old argument that would be dragged into the matter at hand regardless of reasons for being there. Gandalf and Bilbo, too, were not likely to sabotage the chances of having all races represented at the meeting, and Bard would bet good money that Thorin's remaining company hadn't wanted to risk it, either. Still, they were now the ones left to deal with the fallout as Dain Ironfoot stormed the tent, brandishing his war hammer and spewing insults one after another.

"This is a meetin' for royalty, not fancy ornaments! Yer not allowed to bring yer trophies in for display, I'll have ya know! Jest lookit 'im, all smug and satisfied with himself. I'll wipe that smirk off your pretty little face, ya git!"

"If you can reach it."

Somehow, Thranduil remained impossibly calm in the face of Dain's tirade. Lounging indolently across his chair as he tended to do, delivering his own retorts one at a time and with a cutting edge meant to seriously wound. There was something about the Elvenking's calm, measured deliverance that rendered his words five times as effective as Dain's. He spoke quietly, evenly, and confidently, forcing all to listen and acknowledge. It was a dramatic contrast to Dain's loud, boisterous posturing, and Bard had to say, he liked Thranduil's approach better. The control it displayed was ungodly, and undeniable.

"Bah, get over here, yeh sprite!" Dain's voice had risen in volume now; spittle flew from his mouth, beady eyes narrowed into slits, red cheeks flush full crimson, and Bard was having trouble understanding just how this man could project his voice so far. "Let's see how pretty ya be with red hair, ah?!" he bellowed, raising his hammer and bolting into a run.

Bard instantly wanted to rise to his feet and step between the two kings. Surely these two could handle themselves-he'd witnessed their fearsome prowess in battle firsthand-but shouldn't they be stopped before they came to blows? If someone walked away bloody, there would be no salvaging this meeting and they would have to part ways for good, and on bad terms. At least now, they still had only words between them, and not the clang of steel and warmth of spilled crimson life. The bowman made it halfway out of his chair before his movement halted again, and it wasn't because of Gandalf's knowing glance and pointed nod to sit down again. No, it was Thranduil who commanded his attention and his actions: in the time it took Bard to blink, the Elvenking had bolted to his feet, wound back, and hurled the core of the apple he'd just finished straight at the charging dwarf. The core hit its mark with a resonating [i]clang![/i] and a wet, squelching explosion as bits of fruit, seeds, and apple flesh collided with Dain's thick helm. Before he could contain the mindless reaction, Barn flinched away as a bit of loose, squishy apple core hit in the arm. Glancing down, stunned, unable to believe what he'd just witnessed, he slowly brought his astonished gaze up to Thranduil, who unceremoniously (and simultaneously oh-so-smoothly) flopped back into his chair with an almost-bored expression on his face. The fact that Dain had been knocked off of his feet and the resonating echoes of his helmet were still echoing through the tent seemed not to impress him too much. Bard was suddenly struck with a ludicrous thought: did Thranduil keep apples around for two purposes, food only being one of them?

It felt like forever between the unexpected counter-measure to Dain's arrogant aggression and the sharp snap of the canvas flying back to admit two Elven guards, who wasted no time in leaping to their king's side, but Bard could swear they'd been standing there for quite some time before the other elves made their appearance. Thranduil impatiently waved them off, carelessly allowing his sleeve to fall and expose the knives he had strapped to each wrist. Ah, but it wasn't careless-nothing was, with Thranduil. Nothing happened unless he wanted it to. This was him reassuring his guards.

"The day a dwarf can injure me is the day I deserve to bleed," Thranduil sneered, looking not at the men he addressed but at the dwarf on the ground, still reeling from what was apparently a very forceful hit. "Now, if you're quite finished, dwarf, do you think we could proceed with diplomacy now?"

He received no answer but a slurred, noncommittal, unintelligible grumble. And if Thranduil didn't look pleased as punch, Bard didn't know the definition of the word "smug." But one thing was for sure: he was absolutely enthralled by the lively spark in the king's eye. Normally so commanding, now he was enchanting, captivating, riveting: beyond anything the simple bargeman could have ever emulated or even imagined. He commanded even such a riotous man as Dain with authority and apparently no trouble at all, and made even slouching and lounging look victorious and proud. Perhaps it was all a careful placement and arrangement of limbs to paint the glorious picture before him; or perhaps it was the slight cant of his head that sent his white-blonde hair cascading over his shoulders in a silken ripple; or maybe it was his eyes, piercing and powerful and strong, speaking of thousands of years of life and the unique confidence such experience could bestow. Bard wanted to learn everything from this man, and perhaps not just for learning's sake. There was something about Thranduil that was drawing him in like a magnet, and it would be an easy task to blame it on Elven magic and witchcraft...should such a thing exist.

The guards looked wary, but retreated several seconds later, apparently deciding that Dain was no longer and never had been a threat. Not to Thranduil, at any rate. When the tent had settled again behind them, Thranduil's gaze flashed once again to the party seated at the table, fixing them all under his stern countenance. The only one who appeared unaffected was Gandalf: he was sitting there simply looking amused. Even the hobbit was squirming uncomfortably, like he wanted to speak out but could find no words. There was a dangerous edge to Thranduil now, a whole new one. They had all witnessed the unstoppable tornado of destruction that the Elvenking was in battle. They had faced his unyielding judgment. They had attempted to persuade him, which did as much good as attempting to move a mountain. Everyone knew that Thranduil was dangerous in that a massive boulder or a huge icicle was dangerous: harmless if not disturbed, beautiful in its wild nature, but best viewed from a distance, appreciated for what it was, and left to be. But this revealed a facet of the elf that Bard was wondering if anyone (other than Gandalf, judging by his even temper and lack of response) had ever seen. This was a youthful, mischievous, playful amusement, and it had come about after Thranduil had thwarted an attack on his person by knocking someone halfway to unconsciousness by exploding an apple core against their head. Bard was safely terrified, and sank back into his seat with a new-found respect for the Elvenking.

"Now, then, gentlemen," Thranduil began, and Bard could swear the man was purring the words, "with this foolishness aside, I'd like to finalize the agreement we came to last night in regards to the treasure."

**Author's Note:**

> Bard's attraction is growing...and I can't seem to write him any way other than drifting towards Thranduil. Fuck. @_@ Next one's gonna be slash. I can't stop the plot bunnies...they consume me!


End file.
